Terminal
by LollyMc
Summary: When Arthur is diagnosed with a life-changing disease, he flees Paris. He doesn't want anyone to know. He doesn't want anyone to hurt. He doesn't want anyone to care. But they do...and it might just save his life.  Eventual slash.
1. Chapter 1

1

Arthur sat there, deaf and blind to the world. He could feel his knuckles whitening as his grip on the cheap, uncomfortable chair tightened manically. He, the ever-composed epitome of calm and cool, was struggling to remember how to breathe.

But he had to. If he didn't, the world would come tumbling down around him like one of Ariadne's first immature dreamscapes. It felt like it was. The room was spinning and his walls were cracking and he was clutching to the seat arms like they could save him.

He forced his lungs into action, but every breath felt like a stab. The news was breaking him.

The doctor's speech about experimental treatments and radiation and chemotherapy faded in Arthur's ears until all he could hear was the beating of his own diseased heart. He wondered how many times more he would hear that thump.

A million? A thousand? A hundred? Once more, twice more, three times and how was he still managing to breathe when - a paralysing sense of fear spread through him until the only things he could still do were see and hear.

He needed to keep seeing. What if he never saw a painting again? Never heard a clock tick or a bog bark? If he never noticed the way Ariadne smiled or that crease in Cobb's cheek when he winked? That laugh from that man that grated on him and gave him the shivers...

His eyes darted and ears pricked trying to drink it all in, everything, the dull, fatal room and he was trying to block it out at the same time. Because there was too much, it was crushing the senses. His head was bleeding.

Doctor Armstein walked over and patted Arthur on the arm, bending down to him, looking into his eyes. Perhaps he was ill, so very ill, but his pride was still intact and, repulsed by this condescension, the Point Man was able to jerk himself into action and stand up.

The sudden movement made his pounding head reel. The dogs playing poker in a picture on the wall seemed to stare at him, mocking him. They'd be there forever, looking like that.

He shook the doctor's outstretched hand robotically and said _yes, he would come back in a week_, _no, he would not take any drastic, unplanned measures_ and, _yes, he would tell his next of kin as soon as possible. _He was sure his father, in his earthy tomb, would love to hear the news.

Arthur walked out of the clinic with his neck muscles stiff, automatically holding his head high despite the fact what he really wanted was to sit on the pavement there and then and just freeze life. The flowers seemed duller and the air leaden and his entire world a shade of shades.

Yet, contradictorily, with a countdown ticking away the time he had left, all he wanted to do was capture every moment, however mundane.

Arthur finds it hard to go back and remember that day, the day he learned to value. It leaves him with a dull ache in his chest and a feeling of dismay.

He wants to go back. Redo it. Change.

The warehouse was deserted when he arrived, the team out, perhaps for lunch.

Why hadn't he gone with them? Why had he gone to the clinic? Why? The word trailed through Arthur's brain until it no longer sounded or looked right.

The warehouse felt like an empty shell.

The air was cold and nothing looked quite right, and everything smelt different.

Arthur felt like the warehouse.

He was glad his colleagues were out. The fragile, volatile state he had been plunged into did not bode well for his behaviour. He was almost certain that if Ariadne or Cobb had come and asked him how his appointment went he would have crumbled.

Oh God, _Cobb, _how could he tell Cobb? How could he tell anyone?

No, it was for the best that he was alone. His plan seemed better alone.

With nothing else to do until the team arrived, and needing to appear normal for his plan to work, Arthur did what he had always done best.

Sitting at his neat desk, he began the work he had missed that morning. They were researching a mark who was a suspected drug baron, earning millions of dollars every year. However his empire was a head-achingly intricate affair with more branches and offshore accounts and little side-businesses than a Point man's worst nightmare.

It was perfect for his purpose

He worked for two hours straight, not looking up even when the team re-entered the room and Eames' loud, brash chatter disturbed the heavy quiet. He began mentally coaching himself, planning what he would say should someone ask about that morning, while trying to keep up the pretence that he was desperately hard at work.

It was Yusuf who approached him and Arthur was the first to admit _that _was unexpected. He smiled, clapping him on the back.

"Hey, you ok? How'd it go?"

Arthur forced himself to look up and employed his mouth muscles in flashing Yusuf a tight-lipped smile. He wondered later on how he'd managed it.

"Fine thank you. The doctor prescribed a course of drugs which I'll have to take but it's a small price to pay for my health."

Arthur had never been the best liar, so he wondered where this skill had sprung from. Even as a child he'd never been able to tell an untruth to his father. Not that he ever used to do anything wrong of course, but he was, and had always been, an honest man.

Everything was different now though.

Yusuf smiled and nodded.

"Guess you've got a lot of work to do. I'll catch you later."

Arthur nodded and smiled that false, grim smile and turned back to his work.

Arthur's chest hurts and he leans over the toilet bowl, coughing up his guts, or that's what it feels like. As his throat burns and his stomach aches, he shakes and rocks and wishes for someone to hold him.

Desperately, drowningly, he clings to the rim of the toilet bowl.

Why is he alone?

No one had suspected any different from Arthur's tale. They thought it was a miracle. He was going to be OK. He wasn't sick anymore. That's what they thought.

That night, like so many nights before, he was the last left in their 'office'. The warehouse, which Saito had bought them as a post-job present, was custom-built for the team, playing to their dynamics. Yusuf had a whole lab, in which there were often very loud, very noisy, very foul-smelling explosions. Ariadne also had a large area, black and cream, filled with sketchpads and easels, pens, paper, paints, three laptops and a computer. Arthur had always thought it was a little excessive, but ever the gentleman, had never said so aloud. Eames? Well, Eames had a room messily filled with mirrors and files upon files of pictures and information on various marks, and their brothers, sisters, mothers, uncles, dogs, friends, servants and so on. A shudder always passed through the point man's body when he witnessed the shocking array Eames usually left his area in. Cobb had the whole of the second floor to himself, with giant whiteboards for planning the jobs, but he usually spent time on the first floor, going round the team and checking their work. Saito dropped in from time to time to discuss old times and occasionally to offer them a new job.

It shouldn't work, not in the business they were in. A team that large, all the members knowing each other so intimately, working together for so long. Cobb and Arthur had been a rarity, a freak specimen, but a whole team? It confused many but Arthur knew why they stayed together. Because they were a puzzle. They fit – well, if not perfectly, then pretty damned close.

Arthur walked around, drinking in sights and the smells and the memories and locking them all away forever. In his mind, this was the perfect goodbye. No tears shed, no questions asked, no strings attached. Peaceful.

He regrets it now, not telling them. No doubt they have already replaced him with someone infinitely less talented, but capable enough for them to do jobs without fucking up too much.

He's feeling better, the nausea's passed and Arthur sighs and returns to the balcony.

Egypt really is intriguing at night, Arthur thinks to himself. The heat is not as oppressive and the sounds are duller, muted. Everything is purer and simpler and those are two things the ex-point man has come to respect and treasure in his days of searching.

A yellow lizard runs along the balcony rail, stopping as it sees Arthur's fingers blocking its route. The tiny creature freezes, seeming to shiver. It looks up, eyes black and beady and Arthur can't look away because he can see raw fear in its dilated dark pupils and he is worried that it's his hand causing it. He withdraws his hand faster than if he were touching hot coals. He realises, with muted shock that it isn't a normal reaction. But that undiluted fear he sees is so...familiar.


	2. Chapter 2

2

The team were apprehensive, then worried, then downright scared. Arthur had been gone for three months. It was commonplace for someone to disappear for a couple of days, a week or two at most (especially Eames, who, as a conman, got in more trouble than anyone) but more than that was strange, an anomaly.

Cobb sent out feelers to all their mutual acquaintances, to the right people in every city in every country in the world. He asked friends and enemies and strangers alike. He visited Arthur's Paris apartment every day for the first month. He even contemplated filing a missing person's report. And still they received no news of their point man.

After a hideous amount of drink one night, everyone was surprised when it was Ariadne who voiced the terrible, nagging doubt in their minds. It was too horrible to think, let alone say. It upset her. It upset everyone. She had to say it. She did.

_Arthur might never come back. He might be dead._

Though her voice faltered and there were tears in her eyes and she was clearly distraught, Eames still leapt at her, shook her by the wrists and hissed "Shut up. He's fine, he's fucking fine OK!"

Cobb diffused the situation, as a good leader should, but the team were left reeling.

* * *

Arthur stands in the old, cluttered, hot museum with the air pressing onto all sides of him. In truthfulness he is finding it claustrophobic and the chaotic placing of the exhibits is offending his innate sense of order. He is, however, determined to see the mask of Tutankhamun so he continues to follow a line of chattering Asian tourists who look smugly aware of the museum's layout.

A stocky, bearded man shoves rudely into him, shepherding equally stocky children behind him and Arthur's fists curl in anger. He doesn't like being pushed aside.

He suddenly remembers a similar incident.

"_Don't get so uptight sweetie, I'm sure he didn't mean to brush against your precious suit," Eames says with a carefree laugh, squeezing Arthur's arm. He's taken on the guise of an attractive redhead for the task at hand and it is putting Arthur at odds._

"_The day I wish, or indeed ask, for your input Mister Eames will surely be a cold day in Hell," he hisses back, keeping his eyes on the mark and attempting to keep his voice down. These projections are trained._

"_Oh I don't know," Eames says, flashing Arthur a white-toothed, red-lipped grin, "I've always heard Hell was pretty _hot_."_

_With this word, he reaches down and squeezes one butt-cheek. Hard._

_Arthur shoots him in the face. Hard._

_After they fall to the floor in the warehouse, and tie up the waking mark who is clearly confused, the enraged point man grabs Eames by the collar _

"_You're insufferable!" Spittle lands on the hideous tartan shirt collar._

"_And yet," Eames says nonchalantly, grinning at Arthur again and winking, "You continue to suffer me."_

_Arthur lets out a harsh breath between his teeth, slamming the forger back onto the floor and storming out the door. He texts Cobb, fingers blurring over the buttons of his blackberry, the same pattern, the same 7 letters, the same text he's sent a hundred times before._

**Fire him.**

_A couple of seconds later, the predictable reply buzzes in Arthur's hands._

**Can't. He's the best.**

_And the routine is over until next time._

_Arthur grinds his teeth. Another failure because he couldn't keep his cool with Eames. That made two this year; the team weren't going to be happy. There was just something about the juxtaposition of the British accent and his smug face and obnoxious jokes that made Arthur want to scream and pull his hair out._

He laughs hollowly, when he thinks about it now. It was so ridiculous, to lose his cool _and _his work ethic. But there's something about Eames. If he's being honest, there's always been something about Eames.

The mask is there, behind a glass case in a mercifully air-conditioned room. It is ancient and intricate and luxurious and Arthur can't appreciate it. All around him there are people in various states of awe and he feels suddenly jealous of their closed off little worlds.

He ticks the sight off the list of things he has seen. Luxor, the temples, the Nile and now this.

A symphony of oohs and aahs begin and crescendo in his ears until Arthur can't bear it and he walks away, mechanically putting one foot in front of the other. He needs to get away. He's still running.

A bead of sweat rolls slowly down the side of his face and drops onto the floor. It looks like a tear. Maybe it is. He is crying and doesn't know which drops are which. Why can't he feel anything now?

A year ago he would have looked upon that mask in wonderment. Now the sight holds nothing for him. It is an empty relic. It is the memory of a beautiful, passionate past. And it reminds Arthur so much of his current shadow of a life that he cannot bear to stay in its vicinity for one moment longer.

He keeps running.


	3. Chapter 3

3

**A/N: **Just a little update, sorry it's so short. Thank you for your (hopefully, continuing) support for this stories. Your reviews mean so much.

Around two months after Ariadne had suggested Arthur was dead, and Eames had blown up in her face, Cobb stopped looking. It was done with a heavy heart and a sense of betrayal but his ex-point man wasn't stupid and neither was Cobb. Either Arthur really had been killed, which was not uncommon in their risky (and highly illegal) profession or he simply did not want to be found. The second possibility upset Dom to the point that he began to drink again, copiously. All those years they had known each other, all those many things only the two of them knew, it rankled with Cobb that his former friend would leave without a word, a letter or even a text.

Although Arthur had always been that guy. The one who girls hated because they never saw him again. The one without attachments. The one who never has a fixed address. The one who vanishes as quickly and silently as a breeze.

* * *

Arthur slides into his soft, cotton-sheeted bed and takes the old, faded tin box that's lying on his bedside table. On the front is a worn print of a 1950s pin-up girl, smiling with what would have been pearly-whites but were now murky-browns. It had been his grandfather's, the only thing inherited from a man he adored. Although the style and design could not be further from Arthur's own tastes, it was a cherished belonging and inside it, even more memories to tug at his chest.

He brushes aside the ticket stub from today's trip to museum and digs through fabrics, and scraps of paper and documents until he finds what he's looking for.

The heavy cream paper weighs on Arthur's fingers and you can _feel_ that it cost a lot of money. Something like a smile appears briefly on his lips. Scents of Africa, and dirt and cheap cologne still cling to the paper like an elixir.

Or maybe they don't. Arthur still smells them though. Smells him.

* * *

Eames found out Cobb had stopped looking by accident. It took one question, and he knew the truth.

"Any news?"

And there was a look on Cobb's face that instantaneously told him something he hadn't even suspected. For five long minutes Eames stood there, avoiding Cobb's awkward glances. Neither of the two men moved. The air around seemed obtrusive.

Then, without a sound, Eames walked out of the door and vowed two things.

He'd never come back.

He'd find Arthur.

* * *

Ariadne cried when Cobb sat the team down with their new forger, Crystal. _Only temporary, Eames needs time to cool off, he'll be back, don't worry we'll be ok. _

It wasn't even the fact that Ariadne was sure that Cobb was fucking this girl, although that felt like it was ripping something jagged through her chest.

It was the team. It wasn't the team. It was _a team_ and it wasn't _their team_ anymore.

No Arthur and no Eames and where were they going to be in a year's time? Would Yusuf up and out? Saito withdraw his patronage? Cobb...

She didn't even want to think about Cobb but how could she stop herself? When had she ever been able to stop herself when it came to Cobb?

Ariadne sighed a sigh to blacken the heavens and went back to her studio, shooting the dirty-blonde haired woman a filthy glare and hoping bad things upon her.


	4. Chapter 4

4

**AN: **Apologies for the shoddy formatting, I don't like putting such great big chunks in italics, but it worked better. Thanks so much for your support, your reviews mean a lot and keep me motivated. This story is still evolving and I think it needs slow growth to reach it's full potential so bear with me guys ;) Love you.

Arthur stares over at the churning blue-grey waters and wonders again why he is doing this. It might not work.

And if _this_ doesn't work what will? He has tried so much.

So many sights.

And sounds.

And smells.

And still _nothing._

Perhaps a sharp plunge to the brink of a watery grave will bring something to the surface, some tide of feeling that has been dammed.

As the instructor ties Arthur up and half-heartedly checks the bungee ropes, Arthur closes his eyes and remembers, ignoring the technique lecture.

_He and Eames are on a job, lying on a hotel bed with nothing to do for a few hours. It's a large double and he can feel every time Eames fidgets, which is irritatingly frequently. _

_The forger flips through the channels of the huge plasma listlessly while Arthur picks up his copy of War and Peace. It's dog-eared and actually falling to pieces but he adores it. It's one of three things that goes everywhere with him._

_When Eames finally turns off the TV with a loud sigh the high-pitched scream they hear jolts them both to their feet. It's louder the second time, coming from the room next to them, it's Ariadne, and Arthur runs to the door, gun in hand. _

_Then he hears the groaning. It's deep and loud and Cobb's and that's when Eames starts laughing because now they've both heard the creak of springs and Arthur's face is turning a blushing tomato red._

_Eames is holding his fist in his mouth and the corners of his eyes are wet with mirth and Arthur is glaring daggers at him and the fact neither is saying anything is just making things worse because they can hear _everything.

_Arthur turns the TV on again and raises the volume to an ear-splitting 50, and he's sure that America's Next Top Model won't exactly do much for the couple next door, but at least it's something, anything to drown out those sounds of intimacy. They're so distant and primal in his ears._

_Eames pouts and creeps over to the wall where he flattens an ear against the chocolate brown paper and grins. Arthur is outraged and tugs him away by the collar, pulling him close, hissing into his face._

"_You can't listen to them!"_

"_Why not darling, it's a perfectly natural urge; eavesdropping. Though I call it _eamesdropping_... actually that's something different altogether."_

"_God, just sit down and shut up," Arthur says, pointing him over to the bed and settling himself in a comfortable armchair. _

_They turn the TV down a bit so their brains can actually function and Arthur goes back to his book. His mind wanders though and he finds an almost forgotten image of Ariadne, stepping out the shower at his apartment and the curve of her body and the sadness in her dark eyes because he says nothing, does nothing, sits in their dirty sheets and feels nothing. _

_No jealousy stabs at his heart, and he is glad that she and Cobb have finally got it together. They'd had a serious case of it's obvious to the rest of the world but not to them-itis._

_Eames jogs Arthur out of his reverie and he's surprisingly close, sat on the arm of Arthur's seat._

"_You know, if you stopped being such a prude, you might get more of a kick out of life,"_

_The cocky accent and the wink grate on the point man but he does not silence the forger._

"_I'm no prude, Mr. Eames. You just don't know me very well," and Arthur doesn't know why he's smirking or putting that voice on._

"_Well maybe not, but you're a bit safe," Eames leans in closer, over Arthur, so his hands are on either one of the arm rests now and his face is unlawfully close, "You have to be daring, try things you never thought you'd ever do, things in the _real world_..."_

_Eames whispers the last two words and Arthur is feeling a mixture of things, all blended together and he doesn't know up from down anymore because Eames, and Eames' smell and Eames' pure undeniable presence are clogging the cogs of his brain._

"_Like what?" He doesn't remember thinking the question let alone asking it. _

_Eames moves his head even closer until Arthur can count the eyelashes that frame his mesmerising gaze, but it is too much, all too much, much too fast and he doesn't like it, so Arthur shuts his own eyes, expecting something to happen, not wanting it, yet not hating it. _

_And the words 'like what' are still hanging in the charged air._

_Suddenly the heat of the forger's body is gone and Arthur opens his eyes to see Eames staring at him in an entirely odd way. Then the man laughs his brash, edgy laugh and turns away._

"_I don't know, deep sea diving with sharks? White-water rafting? – _

"Or maybe bungee jumping?" Arthur whispers to himself, smiling without humour, and he's back in the moment, closing his eyes tight, trying to forget a time he cannot and will not get back.

Of course he has seen the frayed rope and rusty safety links, the rapid eye movement and shaking hands of the man who took his money. He realised the nature of those questions about his family, and the relieved look the man's eyes when he ticking N/A in the next of kin part of the form.

"I am fortune's fool," Arthur whispers, quoting a liar and a fantasist. He teeters on the edge then falls down, down, down, towards the black waters. He wants to wake up.


	5. Chapter 5

5

Eames didn't come back to the team. He spent his days in varying states of disorder, living life minute to minute and finding no comfort in his chaos. This was unusual. Disarray usually satisfied the Brit but there was something essential missing.

On one particularly bad day after what he suspected was a particularly bad night, he awoke bleary eyed, feeling a sense of sadness clouding his mind. He looked at his watch and then shrugged off his clothes, jumping into the hot shower, washing away everything.

The spray was strong and clean and it felt good. He washed away the dirt from his hands and body, frowning as he tried to remember the previous night's exploits. He knew it had involved alcohol. Lots of it. Maybe a girl or two, money lost, money won. There were some dodgy-looking poker chips in his pocket, so he guessed he'd been gambling.

When he returned to his room, towel wrapped modestly round his waist he nearly shrieked in surprise when he clocked the _young man_ lying peacefully asleep in _his bed. _

Eames blanched and his stomach performed a sickening bout of acrobatics before he managed an uncharacteristically tentative:

"Hello?"

The figure twisted and turned and Eames wanted to be sick because it wasn't just a boy, it was a tall, skinny, brown-haired, delicately boned boy who must have been in his early twenties and when he spoke Eames had to take a seat because his voice was so different to what he'd expected.

Too high, too reedy. And now that he looked closer the boy's face was quite squat, and he wasn't tall enough and he was so flawed compared to -

"Hi Mr. Eames," the boy said, smiling and getting out of bed. He was wearing tight faded jeans, and he reached over to grab a black polo shirt that lay on the floor. _Even the clothes were wrong._

Eames ran a hand through his hair and rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, purposefully not looking at the white, smooth chest.

"Did we -?" Eames blushed, unable to say it. Of course they hadn't...had they?

"Have sex?" the boy asked, laughing. Eames cringed and clutched his neck harder, feeling it burn hot under his hand "No, no. I wanted to but you were too much of a gentleman. Anyway you said you just wanted to hold me."

Eames turned away and dropped his head into his hands at this. How mortifying. How fucking embarrassing. He was shaking a little when an unfamiliar hand on his shoulder startled him. The boy, well _young man_, was talking softly in his ear.

"I can see you're not exactly pleased with this -" he laughed gently, "_situation _so I'm going to head off. I'll likely never see you again so have a good one Mr. Eames. I hope you find him."

Eames had been nodding, not really listening, just wanting to get this strange person out of his apartment but the latter sentence jolted him. The boy was walking out the room when Eames turned.

"Find who?"

"Whoever you were looking for when you picked me up," he said, with an enigmatic smile.

The door closed shut with a creek. Eames was left alone. Again.

His resolve hardened to something diamond-solid in that instant. He wasn't going to give up as easily as Cobb had. And he wasn't going to end up in such a compromising position again. To think he had nearly – he clutched his shaking hands in frustration, banishing the thought and feeling his testosterone boiling under his skin. Arthur was really going to get it when Eames found him.


	6. Chapter 6

6

The first sensation when Arthur opens his eyes is a dull throbbing in his temple. It doesn't exactly _hurt _but he must be pretty drugged up because his heart is beating so hard he can feel the palpitations in every vein and artery. The room around him is woozy, slightly blurred and it feels as if he has opened his eyes underwater.

He puts his hand out to touch his bandaged head but someone stops him. A nurse, he thinks. She's smiling. Or grimacing. He can't tell, and it still feels as if he's had too much drink, or sat up too fast.

All the blood rushes to his head. Then darkness. Black.

And as if a guardian angel was watching over him, as soon as Eames set out to find his friend, there was a breakthrough. The Brit had been absent-mindedly flicking through his TV channels when he stopped on a story that caught his eyes. On the ten o'clock news was the scandal of a group of Egyptian merchants offering tourist expeditions like bungee-jumping on the Nile when in fact they were murderers and con-men, robbing the customers and then letting them use faulty equipment which often broke. Three were dead and two seriously injured.

He was still only half-watching (he wasn't really a _news at ten_ man) when he saw a groaning, twitching figure being rushed past on a makeshift strecther. Then he stopped, rewound and rewatched. Ten times. It was him. Eames was 99% sure.

Without even switching the telly off, he grabbed his coat, passport, phone and wallet and left his apartment running, the door slamming shut behind him and the only sound in the late-night air the pounding of his feet and of his heart.

Arthur takes a long time to rehabilitate. The hospital room is dank and grimy and filled with diseased others. He should be at the American Embassy. He should be in a private hospital. _He should be back with his friends._ But no one knows who he is and he still cannot speak or move properly. He groans a little when the nurse changes the seeping bandages. She is old and rough, clearly wanting to be rid of him. He is just another inconvenience.

His dreams are clustered and insensible. Colours, voices, scents and sounds attack him with vivacity almost amounting to agony. He feels so much while sleeping these days. It's getting to that point – there's more life in his dreams. What if he dreams forever...maybe the pain of the present will leave him.

Then one night, out of the blue, Arthur has a dream even stranger. Almost like a half-memory, a living daydream but more concrete and yet more fantastical. In his dream there's a man talking to his old nurse, he's arguing with her in a language he clearly doesn't speak. He's talking slowly and loudly. It's a voice Arthur has heard and cursed and blessed and cherished a thousand times. But now it sounds like hope. He tries to sit up and reach and speak, beg the voice to come closer, to get him out of this hospital where he cannot move and he knows no one. He's scared. But everything blurs and wobbles and falls and he's alone again.

Eames sits in the chair, rubbing restlessly at his raw eyes. He is so tired that his head nods from time to time, dipping to sit gently on his collarbone. Light filters in from the slightly open curtains and illuminates the floating dust motes. Eames frowns. For the hideously large amount of money he's paying there shouldn't be any dust. Anywhere. Ever. He scribbles this tired thought on a notepad for the cleaning staff to ignore.

The slanted ray throws Arthur's sleeping form into golden light. But in the brightness he looks even more fragile. Vulnerable. Without thinking, Eames puts out a hand and trails it softly down the haggard cheek of the usually so dapper Point Man. When Arthur stirs, Eames startles and runs out of the room for a nurse. He doesn't come back. Not quite yet.

The fact that Arthur is there, less than ten metres away, alive, awake. It's too much to take in. He still needs a little while.


End file.
